In the Beginning
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: Since she'd arrived in England three months ago, he was the only native who didn't make her feel like just another stupid American girl. Claire and Joe, from the beginning.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **_**In the Beginning **_**(1/2)**

**Universe: **London, 1993

**Pairing:** Joe Carroll/Claire Matthews

**Rating: **PG

**Summary**: Since she'd arrived in England three months ago, he was the only native who didn't make her feel like just another stupid American girl.

**. . .**

Claire had been staring at her map for nearly fifteen minutes now, trying to figure out where she was and why she couldn't find the church. She didn't think it would be this hard, navigating her way in a foreign country—especially a country that predominantly spoke English—but it was. She knew she should ask someone for directions, but everyone around her moved so quickly, and whenever she spoke aloud, every native-born Briton gave her a look.

She could see it in their face: _American. _Sometimes it was just a flicker of recognition, sometimes it was a smirk of derision; more than once there had been an outright scowl. _Fucking American. Another fucking American._

She hated it: the word, the label it created, the uncalled for shame that always came with it. More than once she'd been temped to ask, _What's so wrong with being American? _but she was more than a little scared that the British citizens around her would have a laundry list of reasons. And what rebuttal did she have? She knew more about foreign countries than she did her own.

"You look lost. Can I help?"

Her head shot up when she heard the voice. It was quiet and surprisingly close and, as always, outfitted with a British accent.

He wasn't standing in front of her, but behind her and to the side. She almost told him to get lost himself until she realized he was standing so close to her so he could read her map over her shoulder.

She tried to disguise her fluster as frustration, but she could feel her cheeks pink nonetheless. The man who had appeared to help her was exceedingly good-looking, with a shock of disheveled black hair atop his head and dark but intense brown eyes. She tried not to look at him too much as she explained, "I'm looking for Temple Church. It's supposed to be near here but I can't find it."

He stared at her blankly for a second—and her heart sank; he didn't know what she was talking about. But then a smile spread across his face. "You know about Temple Church? I'm…" He chuckled softly. "Well, I have to say I'm impressed. Most tourists are looking for Buckingham Palace or the Tower. Or one of those awful Hard Rock Cafes."

"I'm not a tourist," she snapped at once. She knew she was being unnecessarily curt, but right now, she didn't care. If she could wear a shirt that said that and be taken seriously, she would. "I'm here for school. _Graduate_ school," she added immediately when she saw a smile play on the edges of his mouth. She wanted to say, _I'm here on damn serious business, _and _I'm not a kid here to party; I am a twenty-four-year-old adult here to learn, _but she knew that would only undermine her point, so she stayed silent.

"Well, you sure picked a good country to study in," he told her.

She couldn't help but smile—both because he'd made it sound like a compliment, and because she liked the English people's pride in their country. American patriotism too often came off as jingoistic, but she didn't feel that here. Britons seemed to honestly like where they lived, without having to compare it to other nations to feel entitled to their pride. "I know I picked a good country," she said, because she did know it. She had already dedicated years to studying England. She liked to think she knew close to everything about it. Except how to get around, apparently.

As if reading her mind, he suggested, "I could show you the way there, if you want. It's just this way."

He was already stepping away, gesturing for her to follow, but she hesitated. The lessons her mother and father had taught her as a girl came flooding back. _Don't go anywhere with strangers. Men only want one thing. Always keep a hand on your purse and an eye over your shoulder._

"I'm… not sure," she stalled.

_Stay with at least one person from your class when travelling, _the program advisors had told her. _Don't go off on your own in an area you're not familiar with._

But her classmates were boring. All they wanted to do was go to pubs and flit with men, or hang outside Buckingham Palace hoping to catch a glimpse of Lady Di. Plus, she decided, parents' lessons were only necessary when a child couldn't take care of herself. And Claire could take care of herself.

Her eyes briefly flickered over her potential guide, sizing him up. He was big—bigger than her—but not overly large. She was confident she could take him if he tried something. He had soft spots like any other man, after all. And while pepper spray wasn't legal to carry here, she'd been told by a couple of girls on her trip that a can of air freshener would do the trick if she got him in the eyes. And she had that in her purse if she needed it.

"I get it," he told her before she could say anything else. "You don't want to go off someplace with someone you just met. That's smart," he told her, and he sounded like he meant it. "I can just give you directions, if you want. All you need to do is go—"

"No," she shook her head, having made up her mind. He was a virtual stranger, she knew, but she also knew she wanted to go with him. Since she'd arrived in England three months ago, he was the only native who didn't make her feel like just another stupid American girl. She didn't want to lose that feeling just yet. "I want you to take me to the church," she told him.

"Okay." He gave her a small smile, and waved her forward. "This way, then."

Without even another second of hesitation, she followed after him. For many years, it was the single best decision of her life.

. . .

"But I was here before," Claire said aloud as they stopped outside the doors of the round church. She looking around the outer stone courtyard of the chapel, struggling to discover where she'd went wrong. "I can't believe this."

Her companion smiled, looking over his shoulder at her. "Don't beat yourself up. People call it the Hidden Church."

"I know that," she muttered, still annoyed at herself. She shook her head, forcing herself to drop it, and turned to the man who'd brought her here. "Thank you, for showing me. I'd probably still be lost, wandering around this two-block radius for the next hour if you hadn't intervened."

"It was my pleasure. Oh," he stuck out his hand. "I'm Joe, by the way."

"Claire," she said, putting her hand in his. He had a strong handshake, and she was proud to be returning it just as firmly.

"You have a beautiful name, Claire."

She smiled. "Well, I'd like to say I picked it out myself…"

He smirked. "None of us did, did we? I'm the third Joseph in my family." He looked up at the church behind them as he let go of her hand, and she waited for him to step away and say goodbye, but then he asked, "Do you mind if I go in with you? I haven't been inside the church since I was a boy."

She shrugged, not seeing how she could bar him from public property. They stepped inside, one after the other. Since she was here to examine the place in full, especially the effigies in the basement, and he only to stick his head in, she expected them to soon separate. But, to her surprise and later delight, they ended up staying side by side almost all the while, exploring every nook and cranny of the old building. She hadn't realized she was recounting practically the entire history of the space until he interrupted, and asked where in the world she'd learned all this.

She smiled, blushing, not having realized she'd carried on so long. She'd just meant to say one thing, but that led into another, and another, and she had probably bored him to death by now.

"I'm in the history department at Northwestern," she told him, a bit reluctantly, as she always did when she described her field. While she didn't find it so, she was well aware that, to most people, history was the most boring subject in the world. It probably would be to him, too. "I'm studying at King's College for the year."

She expected him to nod politely and change the subject, as most people did, but instead he looked intrigued, and asked her questions about her studies. She answered them, and was surprised at how easy he was to talk to. She not only enjoyed speaking with him, but listening to him speak, too. To match her knowledge of history, she soon found out, he had a vast knowledge of literature. She had never before been much interested in old writers, but when he talked about them, she found herself listening with rapt attention.

So, when they were finishing touring the church, and he asked if she wanted to go somewhere to talk some more, and maybe get something to eat, she agreed at once.

. . .

She didn't tell her roommates about him. She knew Katherine would demand to meet him and then flirt obnoxiously, and Madeline—well, Claire didn't have a good reason for not telling Maddie yet. For now, Claire supposed she just liked having Joe to herself. She liked talking with him so much, and she wanted some time alone with him to do that before everyone else butted in.

So, when her roommates asked where she was going whenever she left their dorm, she simply said, "To explore," and left it at that.

In part, it wasn't a lie. She and Joe had taken to walking while they talked, and she had seen more and different parts of the city with him in just a couple weeks than she had in her first couple months here.

And it wasn't just the city she learned more about, but him, too. He'd studied English and American literature in school, he told her, and was currently looking for a full-time position as a professor. It was hard, though, he said, because he was young—only five years older than her; not even thirty yet—and neither faculty nor students seemed to respect or trust young teachers. So he was stuck being a professor's aide most of the time, which apparently amounted to doing little more than endlessly grading essays when his boss was too lazy to.

She could tell he was dissatisfied with where he was in life right now, but, from the days she spent with him, she could hardly tell. He was a usually happy person, always quick with a smile or a laugh, and she liked that about him. His good humor was infectious, and more than once, she had to mentally remember to wipe the grin off her face after talking with him before returning to her dorm, just so there wouldn't be endless questions about who had put it there.

They spent at least three days a week together, when he wasn't working and she wasn't in class, and, in the span of about a month, she found she'd learned more about him than she knew of even the girls she was living with. He had quickly become her best friend here, the easiest person for her to talk to, and the first person she thought to call when she had free time to spend.

. . .

One day, when they were sitting on a bench in Green Park, she asked him who his favorite author was. He'd brought her there after a long morning of walking, as a place to rest. _It doesn't have any lakes or monuments like Kensington or Regent's, _he told her, sounding almost apologetic, _but I find the simplicity soothing. Sometimes we go a little over the top here._

He pondered the question for so long that she started to feel nervous and self-conscious, even though she was the one who had put him on the spot. His eyes watched the people as they walked past, thinking.

"I've become interested in Edgar Allan Poe quite a bit recently," he said after a while.

"Oh, yeah?" she asked, mildly surprised. She couldn't remember anyone ever telling her that their favorite author was Poe. Then again, she didn't know many people who read early nineteenth century classical literature for fun. "How come?"

He shrugged. "Not sure. Sometimes you just stumble across something brilliant and it catches your eye." He glanced over to her as he spoke, and when his eyes lingered a bit too long on her face, she wasn't sure if they were talking about long-dead poets anymore.

But a second later, she brushed the notion away as he continued, looking back out across the park, "If you think about it, Poe's the one who began a lot of the popular genres we have now—science fiction, mystery, detective stories, horror, psychological thrillers… It all came from him. The literary world owes a lot to him."

"I only really remember the horror," Claire admitted. "You know, the heart under the floorboards and all that. _Thump-thump._"

"Well, there's more to Poe than just _The Tell-Tale Heart_," Joe replied. "He wasn't a one-hit wonder."

Claire rolled her eyes. "Well, I know _that_."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him smirking at her defensive response. He turned in his seat towards her, folding his hands over his loosely crossed legs. "Okay, then, Ms. History—tell me something else he's written. Since you know _so much_."

Claire bit the inside of her cheek, but held her mouth firm. She wasn't going to let him make a fool of her after she'd so stupidly goaded him into it… Though she knew it was much more likely she'd make a fool out of _herself, _with little help from him. It had been so long since she'd sat down and read anything that wasn't assigned for class. She took a breath, summoning her memory. She had such a good mind for dates and events, for important historical figures and their lasting marks on the world… But the last time she'd studied literature had been when she was an undergraduate. Poe had been one of the most obscure footnotes to her education. Nonetheless, she wracked her brain for any scrap of information pertaining to him.

"Well, there's that one about the raven…"

"Yes, there is." He paused. "And that would be called '_The Raven_.'"

She bit back a scowl at his smug answer, searching for something else to say. Something that would impress him. But her mind was blank and her memory was empty, and finally she could only laugh, throwing up her hands. "Fine! I give up. I don't know anything else! The only other one I know is 'Annabelle Lee,'" she confessed, burying her face in her hands. "And _everyone_ knows 'Annabelle Lee.'"

He chuckled by her side, easing up. "Well, that's nothing to be embarrassed of, Claire."

She peeked out from around her fingers. "With you, it is." She dropped her hands back into her lap, and looked at them as she muttered, "You know everything."

He shook his head, laughing. "I certainly do not know _everything_."

"I meant about literature, Joe."

"You know everything about history," he reminded her. He gestured around. "I bet you know more about this country than I do, and you've been here for, what, four months? I've lived here my entire _life_. How do you think that makes me feel? _That's _embarrassing." He turned to look her right in the eye, leaning forward to share a secret. "Do you know I took out two books from the library last week, to learn about _my own hometown, _just so I could have something smart to say to you about it while we walked around?"

She stared at him, trying to blink back the shock. "No, you didn't," she replied at once, not believing it. No one had ever done something like that for her before. No one had cared about her interests _that much _before. "You didn't."

"Would you like to see the books?" he challenged jovially. "Because I have them at my flat. The second edition of _The London Encyclopedia_ and _The Annals of London. _Thought I was going to break my arms carrying them back. How in the world do you read those things for fun? Just one of them was over a thousand pages!"

She bit her lip, trying to hide a smile. "Why?" she asked finally, turning to face him more fully. "Why'd you do that for me?"

"Because I like you," he answered at once. She blinked at his frankness. His eyes were still smiling as they gazed at her, but his expression was serious as his words: "I like talking to you, Claire, and spending time with you, and… I'd really like to get to know you better."

"Okay…" She bit her lower lip. She wasn't sure what to say to that.

He inclined his head towards her. "This is the part, I believe, where it is customary for you to let me know if you feel the same way."

She didn't have to think about how she felt. They'd been dancing around this for about a month now. She knew it was coming—at some point—but, as always, he found a way to knock her off her guard. "I like you too," she finally said. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, and she couldn't stop the smile that appeared on her face as she looked at him. "And I'd really love to get to know you better."

"So…" He looked her over, a smile lifting up the edges of his lips. "Will you go out to dinner with me then? Tomorrow?"

. . .

"There is a _man _waiting by the front desk for you, Claire," Madeline sung later the next night, as she made her way through their small, shared dorm space, and flung open the door to Claire's room without bothering to ask for permission. "And may I remind you that I do _not_ use the word 'man'lightly." She fanned herself, pretending heat exhaustion as she hung onto the door. "_Damn, _Claire. Where did you find him?"

_He found me, _Claire wanted to say, but that would take too much explaining. She hadn't yet had a chance to tell her about Joe, even though she'd really wanted to. She would explain it quickly now, but Katherine was here with them too, just a couple feet away on the couch, and she would spoil the mood. Kat found conversations boring if they didn't involve sex, alcohol, or some kind of drug. Actually, she found real life boring if it didn't contain one (or preferably all three) of those things. She and Claire did not get along very well, to say the least.

"I met him a couple weeks ago," Claire told Maddie, checking her hair in the mirror, arranging the curls until they hung perfectly, before heading out of the room. Maddie followed right after her, close on her heels. "He helped me find a church I was looking for. We talked for a while, about the city, and books—he wants to be a literature professor, and he—"

"_Jesus._" Kat scowled from the couch, looking up from her magazine as if they'd interrupted her doing very important work. "Maddie, what the hell are you making such a fuss about? He sounds like a dork."

"He sure doesn't _look _like a dork," Maddie told Kat before Claire could say anything. "So!" She quickly returned her attention to Claire. "Where's he taking you?"

"Not sure yet," Claire replied, grabbing her purse and a jacket to wear over her favorite sleeved green dress. "But I'll tell you when I get back tonight—"

"Oh," Maddie cut in, shaking her head vigorously, "no! Don't come back tonight. Are you kidding? No! No coming back tonight, you idiot!"

Claire laughed, rolling her eyes at her roommate. "I'm not going to sleep with him on the first date, Maddie."

From the couch, Kat snorted, turning the glossy pages slowly. "Seriously? Why the hell not? I would. Especially if he looks as good as Maddie says he does."

_Of course _you_ would, _Claire almost said, but bit her tongue. Kat, Claire had found out early on in their year together, slept with practically every available man she came across. (And even some unavailable ones, Claire had heard other girls complain.) Claire shared a knowing glance with Maddie before telling Kat, as civilly as she could manage, "Well, there's the difference between you and me, Kat." _I have standards, _she wanted to add, but she knew that would probably be taking it too far.

Madeline snorted, but Kat wasn't anywhere near as amused. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth grew pinched—but Claire didn't spare a thought for her. She was late to meet Joe already, and she couldn't keep him waiting any longer. He might start to think she didn't want to go.

"I'll see you both later," she called out, throwing her purse over her shoulder and reaching for the door. "Don't wait up!"

"Come back with a good story," Maddie called after her. "I want details!"

"Yeah, don't bother showing back up here unless you've gotten laid!" Kat added.

Claire made sure to shut the door extra hard behind her. She could hear her roommates laugh through the wood, and even as she shook her head at them, she couldn't stop smiling.

. . .

They ended up at a little restaurant about a ten minutes' walk away. It was inconspicuous, with just a tiny sign reading _Benedict's _in painted gold, cursive script. If he hadn't pointed it out and led her to the door, she would've easily walked right past it.

Inside, it was hardly much bigger than it appeared outside—there were just two small dining rooms, populated with about half a dozen tables each. Everywhere she looked, there were candles and soft lighting, and couples holding hands over the tables.

She stepped into the restaurant incredibly glad she'd decided to wear a dress. Every man—including Joe—was wearing a suit. (Claire had blushed when she'd seen him, and hadn't even had to feign the heat she felt he way Maddie had.) Every woman was wearing a dress, accented by the gold jewelry adorning her fingers and wrists and neck. Claire looked over at him nervously as he took her coat, quietly asking if what she was wearing was appropriate enough. She had a feeling it wasn't, but he told her softly that she looked beautiful, and then gestured for her to go first when the hostess led them to their table.

Despite what he had said, she was still anxious as they sat down and looked over the menus, and listened to the waiter give his recommendations. But then, once they started talking, she suddenly wasn't nervous at all anymore. It was as easy to talk to him in a nice dining room as it had been on that bench in Green Park, or on any of the hundred London streets they'd walked down together.

The food was delicious when it came: small salads and nicely cooked meats and, later, a chocolate mousse so luscious she felt the need to actually close her eyes to enjoy it properly.

She had grown so comfortable, locked away in this small corner of the restaurant with him, but too quickly, the plates were cleared, and the bill came, and it was time to go. She tried to pay—at least for her half, since she knew it must've been horribly expensive—but he pretended he didn't hear her when she asked to look at the check, and paid for them both himself.

Then he stood up, helped her into her coat, and soon enough, they were standing out in a cold December night, deciding what to do next.

"I don't really want to go back to my roommates yet," she confessed. "Do you mind if we… go for a walk around for a while?" She expected him to say no—the wind was picking up—but he nodded at once.

She fell into step beside him as they headed away from the restaurant, vaguely walking back in the direction they'd come, but much slower than before. "So you and your roommates don't get along?" he asked.

"No, we do." Claire shook her head, frowning at her own words. "That's a generalization," she corrected. "Most times we get along. Well, most times Maddie and I get along. But I don't have much in common with Kat, my other roommate." She sighed heavily, remembering the almost-fight before she'd left. "She assumes every relationship is meaningless unless its based solely on sex and I really, _really_ don't see it that way. So I don't feel like going home and running into her after this. She'll just yell at me for not being a slut."

"She sounds like a sweet girl," Joe muttered.

Claire couldn't help but laugh. "She's fine," she allowed, knowing she was being too generous. "We just don't see eye to eye."

"But you and your other roommate get along? Maddie?"

Claire nodded, remembering how excited Maddie had been for her when she'd left. Not bitter or judgmental, but supportive. "I do. She's really _is _sweet." Claire ducked her head, remembering, "But she _is _waiting for a 'good story' when I get back, and even if I can escape Kat, I can't escape Maddie." Claire knew her roommate would barge into her room the moment she got back, coming to collect on the details she'd demanded.

"Hm… Well, I guess I have no choice but to send you back with a good story now, do I?"

Claire looked up, ready to tell him that _No, _he was not under _any_ obligation to bend to her crazy roommates' wills—he'd already done more than enough for her tonight—but then she caught the look in his dark eyes and her stomach flipped in her body, and suddenly, she didn't feel like discouraging him anymore.

A bit nervous, but more than that, excited, Claire wondered quietly as their steps both faltered to a stop, "What do you have in mind?" For the second it took him to answer, she thought he was going to invite her back to his place. Despite what she'd said to Kat and Maddie, she wasn't entirely sure anymore that she'd say no.

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of much," he murmured, and then he stepped closer to her, and bent down, and finally gave her the kiss that she'd been thinking about for far too long.

She shut her eyes as his mouth moved against hers, unable to stop her lips from smiling as her mouth moved with him, following where he led and letting go oh-so-reluctantly when he pulled away.

"Good enough story?" he asked, still standing so close that she could taste his breath and see every detail of his face in perfect clarity.

She smiled, leaning forward and letting her nose brush against his. "I think it could be a bit better," she said. Holding his gaze with hers, she leaned forward and kissed him herself, leading this time, and letting him follow.

. . .

A month later, late on a Sunday night, they walked together along the river, taking some quiet time to enjoy each other's company. At first, when she'd suggested a walk along the bank of the Thames, he had scrunched up his nose and refused—it was dirty, he said, polluted—but she'd insisted, and finally he graciously gave in with a sweep of his arm and only a _slightly _bitter _After you. _They walked mostly in silence, talking only occasionally. This left her with a lot of time to think, and as they walked, she played with asking the question that had been on her mind for months now.

It took her a couple minutes to work up the courage to bring up the subject, but finally she managed it.

"Why'd you offer to help me that first day?" she asked.

He opened his mouth to speak, and she waited for his answer, but then he shook his head and muttered, "Never mind."

But she caught sight of the smile peeking at the edges of his mouth and she knew she had to know. "What is it?"

"You'll think I was being silly."

"I think you're being silly right now."

He took a deep breath, blew it out, and then said, "I saw you standing out there on the sidewalk and I thought… I thought you were incredibly beautiful. And I wanted an excuse to talk to you. So that's why I helped." It should have been a line, a ploy, but when it came out of his mouth, and he looked at her like that, it wasn't. His eyes were as dark as the night around them, but she could see the tenderness in them, too. And she could hear the honesty in his voice.

Other men had called her beautiful before, but it had never felt like this.

Usually it was a word guys used as a passcode to get into the private club of her bedroom. Usually, it meant nothing. Usually, she brushed it off and changed the subject.

But this time she lingered on it and asked, "Really? You actually thought that?" because it sounded too good, too sweet, to be true.

"Yes," he replied, still sounding a little embarrassed. "I actually thought that."

For a moment, they walked in silence, until he tugged at her hand. She looked over, surprised to see an expectant look on his face.

"This is the part where you return the favor and tell me how unbearably handsome you find me."

She frowned, tipping her head to the side, feigning confusion. "Hm… I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but…" She pretended to grit her teeth. "I don't really find you all that attractive, sorry…"

"Ah…" He nodded, taking that in stride. "I'm sorry, that's right. Must've been my other girlfriend. She tells me _all_ the time just how attractive she finds me."

"Oh, shut up!" Claire laughed, shoving him away. He laughed too; a deep chuckle that somehow managed to both make her smile but also put a pleasurable twinge in her stomach.

She was glad it was dark so he couldn't see the pink on her cheeks when she digested his teasing for the meaning within. Her feet faltered to a stop, and he looked over at her while she slowed, curious. She rolled her lips together, staring up at him, wondering if she was making too much of what he'd said. It had been a joke, after all.

"You said girlfriend," she began quietly.

He nodded, not even a trace of embarrassment flickering across his features anymore. "I did."

"Do you mean…?" She looked up at him, letting the question hang there in the air between them. She could hear the traffic from the city above them, and the quiet sounds of people passing by. She could see the moonlight gleaming, moving, across the water of the Thames. But she only looked at him. Only listened for him.

"I meant," he told her, "that I think of you as my girlfriend." His dark eyes gazed into hers, and she felt again that pull in her stomach—that momentary shakiness in her limbs—that she'd grown to expect anytime he looked at her with any degree of tenderness, which was actually quite often these days.

"Are we making it official here?" she asked quietly. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears and she really hoped it wasn't loud enough that he heard it, too.

"By the Thames?" He scowled. "I hope not. That's not romantic at all." He looked around. "There's people walking all over the place," he muttered sourly. "There's trash by our feet."

She smiled, taking his hands. "It's romantic enough for me," she told him, linking her fingers through his. She didn't bother telling him that he could've called her his girlfriend while standing in a dumpster, and she probably would've still gone a little weak in the knees.

"Well, see, that's your problem," he teased, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around her back even as they stayed linked with hers. "You obviously don't know the first thing about romance."

"Oh?" Her eyebrows shot up, her mouth splitting in a grin. "And _you_ do?"

He rolled his eyes. "Well, _clearly._ I have so expertly swept you off your feet. Haven't you been paying attention this whole time?"

She chuckled, "Oh, right. I forgot."

"'I forgot,'" he mimicked, shaking his head. "What in the world am I going to do with you?" he wondered, but his voice was soft now as he spoke, and he no longer teased her.

She swallowed as she looked up and met his gaze; she felt her stomach flip again when she saw the look in his eyes. No man had ever looked at her like Joe did before. She'd had her fair share of boyfriends and she'd had a couple one-night stands, but none of them had ever stared at her like this. Even when she'd been having sex with them, they had never looked at her half so tenderly as Joe did now.

_What am I going to do with you? _The question pertained to him, too. And she didn't have the first idea of what she was going to do with him.

But he was waiting for an answer, so she told him simply, "Kiss me," and he did. He let go of her hands, pulling her to him with a strong arm wrapping around her back as he bent down towards her. He guided her mouth to his with a hand on her cheek, and she shivered with pleasure and want when she felt his tongue slip into her mouth.

_Kiss me, _she had said. But what she had really meant, she knew now as her hands pulled him closer, was, _Take me to bed. _For once, she wished she was as brave as Kat, and that she could just throw caution to the wind and say it aloud.

. . .

They now held hands when they explored the country together, and rarely ever let go. On weekdays, they stayed around London, but once he was free from work on Fridays, they headed out to the further reaches of the country. More than once, he feigned sick on Friday and she skipped class so they could leave early.

One weekend in late March, he told her he had found something he wanted to show her, and suggested she pack a bag. When she asked where they were going, he simply said, _Ireland, _as if it were a place down the street and not an hour's plane ride over the sea. At first she thought he was kidding, but then he handed her her ticket, and that was it.

They flew into Dublin, and though he hadn't told her what they were there to see—it was probably more than the city—she'd expected they'd at least spend _some_ time in the capital. They didn't, however—he rented a car right from the airport, and then they headed west, spanning the entire width of the country in just a couple hours. With every mile, they got further from the cities, and then further from the towns, and then finally, so far out that she wasn't exactly sure where they were going at all, unless he was planning to drive the car into the Atlantic on the other side.

When they entered County Kerry, she relaxed, because she now knew where they were going. He'd start heading south soon, towards Killarney, and the beautiful national park that had been a private donation to the state in 1932—but even that didn't happen as she'd expected. The more she asked, the more he told her to just wait, so finally that's what she did. She sat in the passenger seat, stared out the window, and took in as much of the flat but beautiful countryside as she could.

When the road petered into a one-lane rugged path through the bluffs on the seaside, however, she couldn't look out anymore. Sometimes the weatherworn road looked like it really was going to take them right into the Atlantic, and she had to shut her eyes or stare at him to keep her calm. Once they reached level land, however, and moved away from the edge of the ocean, she could open her eyes and enjoy the view.

Grasses surrounded them on nearly every side here. This far from the cities and towns—this far from _anything_—there was nothing to look at but grass and air and the ocean all around. There wasn't a house in sight on this peninsula, and she guessed there wasn't a person around for miles and miles. The sky was a dull gray, with barely any sun escaping, but the breeze was light, and when he parked the car in a small lot atop a hillside and they got out, she hardly noticed the change in temperature.

Taking her hand, he let her up a weatherworn asphalt path, to a bit of higher ground atop which sat a number of primitive structures made of stone. She smiled at the sight of them—she had no idea what they were, or who had made them—and that was exciting for her. Joe smiled back when her eyes flew to his, but he didn't say a word, and gestured for her to explore.

There was a house-like building, made of rectangular-shaped dark-colored stones. Each was laid atop the other, without using mortar or any kind of other bonding agent to hold it together, and she wondered how long it had stood here. Hundred of years, at least. Maybe even a thousand or more. The walls of the building gradually came together to form a subtly pointed roof, reminding her of the way the bottom of a boat comes together—smoothly, seamlessly. It had one opening—a short door at the front—that even she had to stoop under in order to get in.

Joe followed her inside, but remained silent when she asked him what he thought. Out of the corner of her eye, she could catch him watching her as she examined the interior of the building. She touched the stones hesitantly, half-worried it would all come crumbling down if she disturbed it. When she asked what he thought of the building, he deferred to her and refused to even so much as guess. _This is your area of expertise, _he murmured, and then lapsed back into didn't bother telling him it wasn't, not exactly—she was no anthropologist or archaeologist. But she understood what he was saying, and she was both flattered and deeply moved that he'd go so far out of his way to show her something like this. They'd traveled hours and hours to get here. To look at rocks that—to most people—wouldn't garner a second glance. But she knew he'd come here with her in mind, had sought it out with her in mind.

Outside the building, and to its left, there was a bed of rocks with one tall stone sticking out above the others. It had symbols carved into it, but they were not a part of any language or pictography Claire had ever studied. She stood staring at it for a long time, wondering what it meant.

Later, as they travelled back down the gently sloping hillside, parked the car by the side of the road, and walked out to the edge of the bluffs to look at the ocean, she asked him why he had brought her here. The wind had picked up a bit now, and the scent of the ocean grew saltier and saltier as they got closer to the drop-off of the land.

"I thought it was something you might like to see," he told her as they walked amongst the tall grasses, the mud squishing beneath their shoes. "When you said you'd already seen Stonehenge, I tried to think of something you might not have seen yet." He then admitted, "It wasn't easy."

She squeezed his hand, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Thank you," she told him, knowing that, without him, she never would have seen that—not in a million years. "Thank you," she said again, meaning it more now than she ever had. Meaning it not just for this, but for everything he'd done for her. Everything he was to her.

When they started to reach the edge of the cliff, they slowed down, taking careful steps now. They were so close that the sound of the ocean's waves crashing against the cliff's sides was almost deafening. Holding onto his hand for balance, she leaned out over the bluffs, and glimpsed the jagged, sharp rocks that peaked out amongst the spray as they were buffeted by the sea.

When he had said earlier that he'd wanted to take her to something she hadn't seen before, and they'd headed immediately west out of Dublin, she'd been worried they'd wind up at the international sightseeing destination that was the Cliffs of Moher. When they'd headed further south towards County Kerry instead of County Clare, however, she felt relief wash through her. When she mentioned it to him as they drove up to the peninsula, he frowned, telling her he would have never even thought of taking her to Moher. It was too touristy, he said, and she smiled, because he remembered.

As she stood here now, hanging out over the cliffs that reached up hundreds of feet from the ocean, with only his hand to keep her from falling to meet what would unquestionably be a bloody end amongst the rocks, she thought of all the things he'd shown her. All the things she wouldn't have seen, these past few months, if he hadn't helped her that one day when she'd been lost. She closed her eyes, listening to the waves crash against the cliffs and feeling the wind whip her hair around her face. When he started to pull her back from the edge, she didn't fight him, but fell back willingly into his embrace. She let his arms wrap around her middle, loving the way he held her tight against him, like he never wanted to let go of her. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and then whispered right into his ear, so he could hear it above the waves, "I'm so glad I met you."

. . .

They stayed out by those cliffs for a long time. For hours, they sat, trading words and kisses and light touches. When it got into the late afternoon, and the wind began to pick up, she started shaking from the cold. He noticed at once, and pulled her into his arms, letting her rest her head against his shoulder. She breathed in his scent deeply as she sat beside him, and found she loved the way he smelled—well-washed but a little sweaty; rugged like the cliffs supporting them. She could feel the scratch of his stubble when he kissed the top of her forehead and murmured appreciatively, lifting her head a bit so their lips could meet this time.

He kissed her slowly, fully, taking his time to explore every inch of her mouth as if he were trying to map it out with his tongue. Not for the first time, she wondered if he would take the same care with the rest of her body, if she chose to open herself up to him. More and more, ever since that night by the Thames, she was thinking about it.

He pulled her closer after their kiss ended, wrapping an arm around her back to hold her to him. She liked the feel of the warm weight of his hand on her hip, and she nestled against him. She loved how easily their bodies seemed to fit against one another's.

She looked back out to the ocean, letting her eyes roam over the unending expanse of water before them. She had started reading some more of Poe recently, when she had a chance, and his words came back to her now as she stared out at the gray-blue water.

_It was many and many a year ago,_

_In a kingdom by the sea,_

_That a maiden there lived whom you may know_

_By the name of Annabel Lee…_

She smiled as she thought of the poem, despite its sorrowful subject, and turned to look at Joe, whom she found was already staring at her. When she asked if he was thinking of the poem too—she knew he must be; how could he not?—he surprised her by shaking his head.

"Why in the world would I be thinking of anything but you right now?"

. . .

. . .

**Author's Note: **Reviews would be LOVELY! Thank you SO MUCH for reading! Part 2 will be up fairly soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **_**In the Beginning **_**(1/2)**

**Universe: **London, 1993

**Pairing:** Joe Carroll/Claire Matthews

**Rating: **PG

**Summary**: Since she'd arrived in England three months ago, he was the only native who didn't make her feel like just another stupid American girl.

**. . .**

Claire was unpacking her suitcase from Ireland when she heard a pair of feet shuffling in the hallway. She looked out, hoping to see Maddie—they hadn't talked yet, and Claire had so much to tell her—but then she saw it was Kat. Her excitement immediately deflated, and she tried to slip back into her room and quickly and as quietly as possible.

"Hey," Kat called out before she could get away. "You're back."

"Yeah," Claire nodded, looking her roommate over. The girl looked like a mess—her hair was disheveled, and there were dark bags under her eyes. Claire toyed with asking what his name was, but she doubted even Kat knew for certain. That made her smile a bit. "Rough night?"

Kat scowled at the insinuation, but didn't answer. She leaned against the wall for support, and when she looked down, Claire saw there her eyes lingered on her suitcase. "You've been spending an awful lot of time with that guy of yours."

_Well, duh, we're dating_, Claire wanted to reply, but forced herself to hold back. Kat obviously wasn't in a good mood, and Claire knew better than to push her. "Yeah," she answered simply instead. "We have been spending a lot of time together."

"Still haven't slept together yet, have you?" Only Kat could make it sound like an accusation of bad character.

Claire couldn't even hold back the sigh that escaped. "No, Kat," she replied dutifully. "We haven't slept together yet." A second later, she thought better of that response, though, and narrowed her eyes at her roommate. Why the hell did she have to play nice when Kat got unlimited license to act like a bitch all the time? Who cared if she'd had a bad night; there was no reason for her to take her frustration out on other people and wreck their happiness. "And, you know what? I'm fine with that. It's fine that we haven't slept together. It isn't about sex with us, Kat. Not _all_ relationships are like that, you know. He likes me. And I like him." Growing excited, she added—because she hadn't had time to tell anyone yet, and she was dying to tell someone, even if it _was_ Kat— "He took me all the way to _Ireland, _okay, just to show me these amazing—"

"He took you to Ireland hoping to get laid," Kat interrupted flatly, not caring for whatever else Claire had to say. She threw a withering look to her shocked roommate as she added, "And now I bet he's feeling pretty damn stupid for having wasted so much time on a girl who doesn't put out."

_He isn't like that, _Claire tried to say, but she couldn't get the words out quick enough, and by the time she could speak, Kat was already gone, headed to the shower._He isn't like that!_ Claire almost shouted the words after her, but something stopped her.

She sat back and she looked at her suitcase, and a voice in her head asked, _Are you sure?_

The thought paralyzed her, and for some time she was just sitting there, staring, thinking, spiraling.

"Hey!" Maddie's voice broke through to her, gathering in strength as the other woman made a beeline to her room. "You're back! How was it? I bet Ireland was _so_romantic. Did you guys get to go to—"

"Can we please not talk about it right now?" Claire interrupted, trying her best to keep her voice level even as it threatened to shake. She loved Maddie most days, but right now—she just couldn't be around such unbridled optimism. "I'm sorry," she hurried to say, seeing the confusion on Maddie's face, "but I just, um, I just really don't want to talk about the trip right now." She took a breath and hated that it caught in her throat. She could already hear her own voice growing hoarse as she asked, "Can we please do this later, Maddie?"

The huge smile that had brightened Maddie's entire face just a minute ago faltered at once and then fell off. Claire looked away as she saw her friend's face darken, and grow concerned. "Oh, no, Claire… What did he do?"

Claire shook her head. She wanted to say he didn't do anything—that he had in fact been so wonderful to her—but she couldn't get the words out. She could hear Kat's voice in her head, and she bit down hard on her lip, focusing on blinking her eyes and breathing normally so she wouldn't break down over a couple insults like a stupid high schooler.

"Come here," Maddie murmured, pulling her into a hug without another word. Grateful, Claire accepted it, and ended up hugging her friend back hard. She hadn't realized how much she'd needed that comfort until just now, and she took refuge in it.

Later, when Joe called and asked if she wanted to come over to his place for dinner, she was outraged that he'd even suggest it after what had happened—but then she remembered that he didn't know. What Kat had said wasn't his fault, and so when he suggested coming by to pick her up that evening, she didn't tell him not to. And she didn't mention what Kat had said. Part of her was worried it might give him the wrong idea.

. . .

"It's not much, just so you know," he warned as they stepped on the creaky wooden stairs that led up to his apartment. "It's a pretty small building. "

"Small is fine, Joe," she replied when they stopped at the fourth floor and he took out his keys. "I wasn't under the impression that you were a millionaire, you know."

"No?" he smiled over at her. "Damn it. And I was trying so hard to cultivate that image."

Despite her lingering bad mood, he still made her crack a smile. "Maybe you shouldn't have said you were a teacher, then. It's almost like saying you're on welfare."

"I always lead with the wrong thing." He shook his head with mock regret, and then pushed open the door, waving her forward.

Her first thought was that there was hardly enough space in this apartment for him to live. It was filled—_over_filled—with books and papers and furniture. Everywhere she looked, there was another pile of novels or newspapers or stack of essays.

She could hardly tell what the table looked like in front of the couch, except that it had to be sagging under all the weight, and had probably left indents in the worn old red carpet beneath it. The couch was old, too—worn brown leather, obviously been in use too long—but it was the only thing in the place that was clear of all debris. There were even piles of books by the floor, despite more than one wall being taken up entirely by bookshelves. They were full, too, and looked like they might topple if anyone tried to put anything else in them.

Joe came up beside her and found her staring. "I, um, I tried to clean, but there's not exactly space to put everything away."

Claire shook her head; she didn't care if it was cluttered. She wouldn't have cared if it were dirty. Or if it were a cardboard box. It was where he lived and it fit him.

"I love it," she told him honestly. She picked up a book at random from the coffee table, glancing at the author on the spine. Hemingway. Her eyes flew over the others, catching a couple names: Faulkner, Dickens, Brontë, Cooper… The list went on and on, she knew, and probably never ended. It would take her into obscurity, she was certain, but she was aware that he would know each and every one if she asked.

"It's perfect," she said, setting the book back down carefully, knowing that while it might be one of hundreds for her, but that it was priceless to him. Had she ever stopped to imagine where he might live, this would be it—surrounded by books and work and utterly comfortable among both.

"I'm happy to hear you say that," he murmured. He took her hand, and with a smile and a tug on it, led her through the room. "Come on. You came here for dinner, didn't you? Come on and sit."

Sitting, in fact, was all she ended up doing. She sat at the small table in his tiny kitchen and watched as he finished what he had been preparing earlier and put it in the oven. While it was cooking, he started making a salad, and when she got up to try to help, he steered her back to the chair and told her to wait, saying he wanted to do this for her himself. She sighed, wanting to remind him that he'd done enough for her already, but managed to keep silent gave in. Somehow she always ended up losing arguments with him.

As it turned out, however, the dinner was great. She had to say she was surprised he could actually cook. Part of her had guessed that much of what he'd cleaned up before she came over had been take-out boxes, but maybe not. The lasagna he'd made was delicious. For about an hour as they talked and ate and laughed, she forgot what had been bothering her and just enjoyed her time with him. He was amazing like that, she found—that when they were together, she just forgot everything bad and focused on the good that was him.

When they finished, she insisted on helping with the dishes, and he finally surrendered and let her in. It was calming, peaceful, working side by side with him like that. She felt like she could do it again, maybe even many times, and never be bored or unhappy.

Afterwards, he directed her to the living room, saying they could sit on the couch and have some wine and talk for a bit. She smiled and nodded, wandering into the other room while he fetched a couple of glasses. She explored the books and the papers as she walked around, slowly coming back to herself in the silence of the apartment and a moment alone in it.

Unbidden, Kat's words came floating back to her, and she squeezed her eyes shut to ward them off. She didn't want Kat to ruin this night like she'd ruined this day.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Joe was coming back into the room with a wine bottle and she couldn't hold it in: "Do you want to have sex with me right now?"

He stared at her, frozen, his hand still around the neck of the wine bottle. "Yes," he answered truthfully after the moment of confusion has passed. "I do."

Claire nodded, digesting that. A week ago she would've been happy with that answer. Just a few hours ago, she would've been overjoyed. She would've jumped into his arms without a second thought. But Kat's words were still swimming in her head, and they poisoned everything. "You brought me over here just so you could try and sleep with me." She almost added, _Since you failed in Ireland, _but even she couldn't say that.

"No, I didn't." She shot him a look and he hurried to explain. "Not… _exactly_," he admitted with a grimace. "I wanted you to see where I live, that's why I asked you to come here. I've seen where you live; I figured it was only fair. And we're dating—I wanted you to know the kind of place your boyfriend comes from. And… yes," he added somewhat reluctantly, "I was hoping something might happen between us if you came here tonight. I was more than hoping." He tapped his fingers nervously on the neck of the wine bottle. "Are you angry with me?" he ventured quietly.

Not being able to think of anything to say, she just shook her head. It wasn't an answer and they both knew it.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

She took a deep breath. She could feel the story about Kat bubbling to the surface—but she didn't want to dump that on him. She didn't want to sully her memories of Ireland with Kat's stupid insults.

What the fuck did Kat know, anyway? She hadn't even met Joe. She'd just heard about him, and she'd seen Claire come and go, and nothing more than that.

Before she'd talked with Kat, Claire had been seriously contemplating having sex with him. She had wanted it, she truly had. She'd wanted that connection with him—wanted to add another layer to the most comfortable and meaningful relationship she'd ever had in her life. And fuck Kat for trying to ruin that. Fuck Kat for trying to cheapen it.

She looked over at Joe, still standing by the couch, wine bottle clenched in his hands, and she knew she didn't have to tell him about Kat. Kat didn't matter. Because it was just her and him here.

"I'm thinking," she began, pushing away all other thoughts and zeroing in on him8. Again, she looked down at the wine bottle in his hand. But this time she smiled. "I'm thinking that you really must be an idiot, Joe, if you think you actually need to get me drunk to make me want to sleep with you."

And then, before he could say a word, she'd marched across the room and kissed him deeply. For a second, she didn't feel his lips move against hers, and she was scared he'd changed his mind after all—and that maybe by taking charge like this she'd ruined some plan he'd had to start their night together—but then he kissed her back.

His lips were more eager against hers than they'd ever been, and for a second, she was overwhelmed. Before, his kisses had been slow and soft and they'd petered out easily. These were fierce and probing, and she got the idea that, if he had any say, they'd never end. When his tongue slipped into her mouth to taste her more fully, she moaned, her hands moving to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt.

Then she heard the wine bottle hit the floor with a dull _Thump, _and suddenly his hands were tangled in her hair, pulling her closer and anchoring her to him, and she thought to herself that she had never felt anything so good as his hands buried in her hair, and his lips pressed hard against hers.

It wasn't until later that night, as she was gasping his name and clutching at his bare back and lifting her naked hips to meet his that she found he could make her feel so much better than simply _good_.

. . .

In the morning, after they woke late, she sat in his small kitchen wearing a borrowed t-shirt of his and watched him make her eggs and toast. When he wasn't looking, she bought the collar of the shirt to her nose and inhaled, smelling his scent. She hoped she could sneak this shirt with her when she left, to keep him close even when he was across the city. She already knew what kind of reception she was going to get, returning in last night's clothes, but maybe having something of his would make the taunts a bit more bearable.

He looked over his shoulder every couple seconds as he cooked, meeting her eye each time before looking away again.

"What?" she finally asked, self-consciously running her hands through her tangled hair and tucking it behind her ears. "Do I look that bad?" They hadn't showered last night—or yet this morning—and she knew she must look like a mess.

"'Bad' is not a word I'd use," he replied with a smile tugging on one side of his mouth as he turned off the stove and grabbed a couple of plates from the cupboard.

"Ah, of course…" She shook her head, but couldn't help smile. "Mr. Literature would need something with a bit more… _substance_. How about loathsome, then? Does that work? Repulsive? Hideous? I vote for hideous, personally."

"I was actually going to say you looked gorgeous," he told her, setting down a plate of eggs in front of her, and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "But repulsive always works, too."

. . .

She had begun spending literally every free moment she had with Joe—to the point that even Maddie was complaining that she never saw Claire anymore. Claire tried to explain—she wanted to spend time with Joe, and she didn't particularly feel like being around Kat—and though Maddie accepted it, Claire could tell she was still upset. She was thinking maybe she'd suggest having dinner with her friend—just the two of them—when Maddie beat her to the punch.

"We're going out tonight," she announced on Friday afternoon. "And you're coming."

Claire shied away immediately, an automatic frown upsetting her face. "Maddie, you know that's not really my thing…"

As usual, Maddie didn't take no for an answer. "I don't care if it's your thing or not. You're coming, Claire."

Claire opened her mouth to argue, but Maddie gave her a look. _You know you owe me, _her arched eyebrows said, and Claire had to admit that she did. She'd practically left Maddie alone to live with Kat, only coming home at night to sleep—she did owe Maddie. She owed Maddie a good time; a nice night out.

"But…" Something held her back. "What about Kat? Is she coming?"

Maddie grimaced. "She is," she admitted, knowing she couldn't hide it. "Look, I know you two don't get along—"

"That's an understatement," Claire muttered.

"—but Kat promised she'd act like a normal human being. Come on," Maddie bumped her shoulder. "Just one night. Don't you miss us? I know everything's all picture-perfect with Mr. British, but we _are _still alive back here, you know, you can't just ignore us and hope we'll go away—"

"Maddie, come on! I haven't been ignoring you!"

But Maddie shot her a look so dark Claire had to give in: "Fine," she muttered, feeling more than a little humbled. "I'll come."

Later that night, the time they all got dressed and were heading out, even Claire had to admit she was feeling a bit excited. While she loved spending so much time with Joe, she realized now that she had missed being with the girls, too. She hadn't been out with them in so long.

She and Maddie helped each other pick out what to wear; Kat was at another party and was going to meet them there. Claire didn't mind her absence—in fact, she kind of hoped Kat would stay absent the rest of the night.

But when they walked into the first nightclub, she spotted them immediately, and rushed over.

"Look at you!" Kat called, coming up to Claire with a grin. She let out a big laugh that made Claire wonder just how much she'd drank already. "You look great!"

For a second Claire stared at her—suspended, waiting for the other half. Waiting for the shoe to drop. Waiting for the insult.

But to her surprise, it never came. Kat just grabbed her arm, led her away towards the dance floor, and in seconds, they were in the middle of the mass of bodies, dancing, drinking, losing themselves as the hours passed. Maddie came and went, and out of the corner of her eye, Claire caught her more than once smiling, clearly happy that everyone was getting along again. Claire couldn't even argue—it was nice not to fight. Maybe they could actually put that stupid spat behind them.

When they got thirsty and tired enough, Claire and Kat broke away and made their way through the throngs of people and back to the bar. Kat grinned, hanging onto her arm as she ordered yet another drink. Claire thought about asking Kat what number this was, but she wasn't even sure her roommate could remember. For once, it made her smile instead of frown.

"What are _you _smiling about?" Kat demanded to know with a laugh, throwing back a shot. It was at least her fifth. At least.

Claire opened her mouth to answer, but Kat beat her to it: "Oh, _I know. _There's only one thing that makes you smile like that." She leaned against the bar, more for actual support than comfort. "How _is _the boyfriend?"

"Good," Claire answered quietly, not even trying to hide her smile now. She _was_ genuinely happy—though it wasn't all completely due to Joe. She'd never thought she'd see the day when her and Kat actually got along for any period of time longer than two minutes. But, like a miracle, here it was.

"_G-oo-ood,_" Kat drew out the word, smirking, taking ahold of the other drink she'd ordered. Claire was impressed at how daintily she managed to sip it. "I bet he _is _good, isn't he?" Her eyebrows rose into arches, her lips curling up suggestively around the glass. "_Real _good."

Claire wished she could stop the blush that colored her cheeks at the implication, but such a thing was impossible. If it _were_ possible, she would've mastered it so long ago. She tried to turn her head, but Kat caught her.

"Ah-ha! I knew it!" she cackled. "He fucked you good, didn't he?" She grinned, even when Claire's mouth dropped open in silent shock. "Don't bother lying, I can tell. And don't look so offended, Claire! Honestly, you needed a good lay. Loosened you right up!" Her grin widened, her eyebrows jumping, "You know, maybe I should find that _man_ of yours and thank him personally. He's made you so much easier to deal with. He lives nearby, doesn't he?"

There was no room for interpretation in Kat's words, and they hit Claire like a slap in the face, and made her eyes sting.

"It's nothing," Claire bit out when Maddie grabbed her arm to try to stop her on her way to the door. "It's nothing. I just—I can't be around Kat. I thought I could, but I can't. I'm sorry." She ducked out of Maddie's grip and was out the door before her friend could even get a word in edgewise.

She could've walked to Joe's apartment, but she couldn't bear to be alone with Kat's words in her head anymore, or her taunting grin behind her eyes, so she hailed a taxi and begged the driver to go as fast as he could.

Joe sounded exhausted when she buzzed up, and she felt a wave of guilt wash over her when she realized how late it was. It was almost two AM; she'd probably woken him up from a dead sleep. But he let her up anyway.

When he opened the door, he stopped still, looking her up and down. It was only then that she remembered what she was wearing—a short, tight-fitting sequined dress that even Maddie had confessed was "a little slutty." Joe whistled a low note, leaning against the doorframe. He suddenly looked a good deal more awake than he'd sounded when she'd first called up as he asked, "Now, why don't you ever dress like this for me?"

Even when she felt like crying, he managed to make her smile, and she reached forward to hug him just for that. "I'm sorry," she whispered, burying her head in his shoulder. "I didn't mean to come so late… Didn't mean to come at all…" She squeezed her eyes shut. "Is it okay if I stay here tonight?" Her voice shook as she asked, and with Kat's words reverberating inside her head like an echo in a cave, she was acutally scared of what he might say.

She needn't be.

"Of course," he murmured at once. He rubbed his hands up and down her back soothingly, and she sank into him, so grateful to have such a caring person to come back to. "Anytime," he added softly, and she knew he meant it.

His voice was so soft, and his hands were so warm, and he made her feel so completely safe that she just let go completely in his arms then. Before she even knew what was happening, she was shaking, crying into his shoulder, and holding onto him as if for dear life. His support didn't waver for even a second.

. . .

She waited until she knew her roommates were in class to move her things out of the dorm. It didn't take too long—she didn't have much, just two large suitcases worth—and within an hour, she had all her things packed and was headed across the city with them.

She wouldn't have moved in with Joe if he hadn't suggested it first. Over the course of that long night, he'd gotten the entire story about Kat, and once he'd heard it all, he offered at once to let her stay with him until she had to go back to the States. Claire was in the middle of saying no—that was way too much time for her to be living on his dime—when he reminded her softly just how much time she actually had left in England.

"It'll only be for half a month, Claire," he told her, hardly meeting her eyes.

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, harder than anything Kat had ever or could ever had said to her. She hadn't thought about her trip back home in months. It had always been so far in the distance, hardly real, barely even on the horizon… "Half a _month_?" she choked out. "That's it?"

His dark eyes were sad and weary when they looked up at hers. Silently, he nodded. And then, for the second time in twelve hours, she fell apart sobbing into his arms.

. . .

She only had seven days left.

When classes had ended yesterday, the advisors told every student to get out of the dorms and explore as much of the country as they could before their time here was up. _Soak up every second, _they said. _Get outside and go to every place you ever thought about visiting but didn't have a chance to. Now is your chance! See every part of the country you missed out on exploring. Get out, get out, get out!_

Instead, she stayed inside with Joe.

They went out occasionally—for groceries, or dinner, or for walks around the parks—but they spent most of their free time together, holed up in his cluttered apartment.

In the mornings, when he didn't have work, they made breakfast together and read for hours. Sitting on opposite sides of his worn-out leather couch, with their legs tangled together in the middle, they traded well-written lines of fiction, or surprising historical facts, and lapsed in and out of a comfortable silence.

Sometimes, she put her book down, crawled into his lap, and asked to him read aloud from whatever classic novel he was studying at the moment. She nestled her head against his neck, closed her eyes, and let his voice fill her ears completely.

Sometimes, he set his book aside, pulled her close against his chest, and requested that she teach him something new about his country. He sat behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder, his eyes following along as she detailed the particulars of a certain treaty or map or a monarch's legacy.

During the nights, he read her poetry, sometimes reciting it by heart, as they lay in bed and explored every last inch of each other's bodies. They set about memorizing every dip and blemish, categorizing each other's perfections and imperfections, and locking them all away in their minds. The words he whispered in her ear, or against her skin as he kissed her, were mostly love poems. As they got closer and closer to the day she had to leave, his whispered words got progressively more tragic.

More than a few of them were Poe's life's work. Joe had shown her, over the past couples months, how to see the beauty in the late poet's work. Where before she'd only been able to appreciate the rhyme scheme, she now felt the ache of parted lovers deep in her soul. Now the words stirred her, and hurt her, and sometimes brought tears to her eyes.

But Joe was always there, holding her, kissing her, telling her things would be okay. Telling her they'd see each other again soon. His quiet reassurances were the only thing that kept her from bursting into tears each and every night.

They made love every chance they got, and even though neither of them had said the words yet, she was certain that's what they were doing. She knew now—she'd known for a while—that she loved him.

But still, she couldn't make herself say it aloud. The timing was too terrible. She didn't want to say it now and leave him to think that she'd only done so because she'd been sad or panicked or scared. She wanted to tell him she loved him when things were calm and normal so that they would both know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she knew exactly what she was talking about.

Almost every night, she thought of their trip to Ireland, and wished so badly she had told him how she'd felt when they'd laid by those cliffs together. Because she had felt it then; she _had _loved him then. Maybe she'd fallen for him weeks before, or maybe she'd fallen for him when she'd first met him, but it didn't matter—that day in Ireland had cinched it for her, and that's what was important.

. . .

He took her personally to the airport on the day she had to fly out. Tears pricked her eyes as they drove out of the city and towards Heathrow. She could hear the planes' engines roar as they took off and landed and flew through the sky, and she shut her eyes, bringing a hand up to soothe her pounding head. From the driver's seat, he reached over and turned up the radio as high as it would go, even though they weren't listening to anything, and then took her hand in his. He didn't need to tell her to squeeze it tight.

She'd spent hours last night crying, and both her eyes and head still ached from all the tears. They hurt even more now when she remembered how he'd cried last night, too. She had never seen a man cry before.

That was how she knew he was telling the truth when, last night, he'd held her in his arms and whispered so softly, "I'm in love with you, Claire."

She wished now that she'd recorded him saying that. She was scared she would forget what he sounded like once she left. She was even more scared that they might not see each other again, and that the love they'd found here would fade away and disappear the moment she went somewhere else.

They'd made plans—oh, they'd made so many plans—but she knew plans were nothing more than fantasies, especially now.

She put her hand to her mouth when she thought that, stifling a sob as they drove. That's what this had been, this trip, him, this perfect year: a fantasy. A wonderful, beautiful, almost unbelievable fantasy. A dream.

He held tight to her hand as they pulled into the airport parking, only letting go for a moment as they both got out, took her luggage inside, and checked it onto her plane. She turned around once her bags disappeared down the conveyor belt, and found him standing by the far windows near the entrance. As she walked back towards him, she could tell he was trying to say something, but nothing was coming to him, and so she just pulled him into a hug, as much for him as for herself.

She remembered seeing couples embracing outside the college's dorms like this—holding tight to one another, their faces buried into each other's shoulders, not saying a word—and she'd always thought them pathetic and attention-seeking. If you were really torn up about a parting, she had thought, you deal with it in private. You don't want people to intrude on your pain if it truly is pain.

But she understood it now. It was done in public because it was the very last chance.

"I don't want to go," she whispered, holding him. And then, after sucking in a breath and squeezing her eyes shut tight, she told him the words she'd wanted to say for so long, but had been too scared to voice aloud: "I'm in love with you, Joe."

She wasn't saying it because he'd swept her off her feet in a foreign land. She wasn't saying it because they'd had sex, or because he'd said it first. She wasn't saying it just because she was leaving.

She was saying it because it was true, and because it was physically hurting her to keep it in.

"I wanted to tell you when we were in Ireland," she whispered, everything pouring out now, "I wanted so badly to tell you then. I'm so sorry. I should have. I should have said it last night. Joe, I'm so sorry I didn't say anything. I'm so fucking sorry."

He shook his head against her shoulder. "Don't apologize," he murmured.

Biting her lip to hold back tears, she asked, "Did you already know?"

"I hoped."

She didn't know why that made it worse, but it did. _Wasted time, _she thought to herself as tears poured from her eyes as she pressed her head deeper into his shoulder. _So much wasted time. _Her voice was barely audible when she had enough breath to speak, but they were so close she knew he could hear her anyway. "You can come to America, you know. Evanston isn't much, but we could go to D.C. if you want, once I'm out of school, and see the capital. Or—Or I could take out some books on Poe and we can go to Maryland and Virginia, and walk around Baltimore and Richmond if you want. You can be the one with all the obscure facts and I'll try to keep up." She sniffed, pressing her face closer against his neck. "I'll try so hard."

He held her tighter. "I'd love that, sweetheart."

She lifted her face from his shoulder, wanting to look him in the eyes as she said it this time. She pressed her forehead against his. "I love _you_."

He leaned forward and kissed her. "I love you too." He kissed her on each cheek, starting to pull back. "You have to go. You'll miss your plane."

"So?" she mumbled, wrapping her arms tighter around him and refusing to budge. "I'll miss my plane. Then I'm stuck here in the country I love with the man I love. How terrible."

"You have to get home," he told her quietly, pulling back to look at her.

She stared up into his eyes, and saw herself reflected there. "I am home," she whispered.

He shut his eyes, but she could see the pain in them. He took a ragged breath before muttering, "You really are trying to make this as difficult as humanly possible, aren't you?"

"Don't blame this on me," she muttered stubbornly. "I wasn't the one going around intruding on lost women's lives."

"I'm never going to regret doing that. I will never regret meeting you."

"Neither will I."

"Go on," he whispered again, gently pulling her arms away and forcing them apart. He picked up her bag, ticket, and passport that she'd all let drop to the floor when they'd hugged. "You have to go, love."

She nodded, taking her things, and forced herself to give him only one last look. If she kissed him now, she knew she'd never stop. If they touched again, she knew she'd never leave. So she just forced a smile, and gave him a little wave, and walked towards Customs, looking back at him over her shoulder all the while until she disappeared around the first corner.

The line to leave the country was short—understandably—and she waited only a couple minutes before being waved forward. She set her purse on the edge of the counter, fumbling for her passport to give to the man in the booth. A piece of paper fell out of it as she was about to hand it over, and she stooped to pick it up. She stared at the paper, one hand suddenly going rigid around her passport.

_Take this kiss upon the brow!_  
_And, in parting now,_  
_Thus much let me avow—_  
_You are not wrong, who deem_  
_That my days have been a dream_

"Miss?" The customs officer interrupted her, bringing her back to reality. He held out his hand. "I need to examine your passport if you're looking to leave the country."

Claire swallowed, keeping the paper and reluctantly handing him the small booklet. While he examined it, she stared down at the note that had been tucked inside, trying to read the words as her hands shook.

_Take this kiss upon the brow!_  
_And, in parting from you now,_  
_Thus much let me avow—_  
_You are not wrong, who deem_  
_That my days have been a dream;_  
_Yet if hope has flown away_  
_In a night, or in a day,_  
_In a vision, or in none,_  
_Is it therefore the less gone?_  
_All that we see or seem_  
_Is but a dream within a dream._

_I stand amid the roar_  
_Of a surf-tormented short,_  
_And I hold within my hand_  
_Grains of the golden sand—_  
_How few! yet how they creep_  
_Through my fingers to the deep,_  
_While I weep—while I weep!_  
_O God! can I not grasp_  
_Them with a tighter clasp?_  
_O God! can I not save_  
_One from the pitiless wave?_  
_Is all that we see or seem_  
_But a dream within a dream?_

Joe had recited the poem before for her before, and she could hear his voice in her ear as she read it, as if he were still with her. As if they were lying in bed again, with his hands tracing the swoop of her back, his lips brushing across her shoulder blades. Her eyes skimmed over the poem again, this time noticing that there was writing on the other side of the paper. Her chin shook as she turned the paper over. She recognized his flowing cursive at once.

_Claire—_  
_Don't ever think it was just a dream._  
_We will be together again, I promise._  
_I love you._  
_Joe_

She could hardly hear the customs officer as he asked her the necessary questions, peered at her, and matched the pristine image in the booklet to the red-eyed woman in front of him. She saw him reach for the stamp and was suddenly filled with panic.

What was she thinking, leaving? She couldn't leave. She couldn't go.

She _couldn't_.

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to run from here, to go back to Joe's flat, to crawl into bed with him, and never leave.

She wanted to walk with him through the parks and old ruins, feeling his hand warm in hers, and his voice soft in her ear, with his laugh buoying her soul.

She wanted to go back to that street corner two blocks away from Temple Church and get lost again, and be found, and she never, ever wanted to have to leave.

She wanted more time.

But she had none—the customs officer was handing her her passport back, and waving her on—and suddenly she had to move. She had to go. And, for the foreseeable future, there was no coming back.

. . .

. . .

**Author's Note: **Thank you so, so much for reading. I would love to hear your thoughts! I think I will have a couple more one-shots coming soon from this universe, so keep your eye out if you're interested!

Thank you!


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